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outlet for the aggrieved, the lonely, the halfdemented, the outlawed and the exhibitionist, and in that sense is an indispensable part of London life. Using the itinerant format of »1789,« Gaskill and Stafford-Clark dovetail the separate scenes with great skill and illicit performances of astonishing verismo from Tony Rohr as the Irish gipsy, Toby Salaman as a grizzled tea bar cynic, Paul Freeman as the tattooe ex-hood fiercely brandishing his press cuttings and Ken Cranham as the dilapidated looker-on. The production is the work of the Joint Stock Theatre Group; and it is a prime example of the modern theatre’s ability to annex territory that in the Forties and Fifties would have been left to the earnest documentary movie maker or the roving OB camera A fascinating evening. ГЩ Speakers’corner USU ílilM C Hy f . Pa : k \ Outward KJ and physical sign of a ł • national state of rnmrm stinti Brace '-- uî s ЯЯЯIs ЯЯ Я ЯI/ Я Я odd that a country which takes free § speech far granted feels the need to reconsecrate it every Sunday morning, in a public park, before the admiring gaze of tourists and under the wateliful eyes of strolling policemen. But who are the speakers, this motley band of people who proclaim their sharply differing passions each week from the tops of upturned crates and ladders? The gawpers doubtless see them as no different from the guards at Buckingham Palace colurful figures, dutifully on parade, a free entertainment. Ten years ago, ’however, Heathcote Williams (who has since won an Evening Standard drama award) had the curiosity to find out. The result of his researches was a remarkable book, part novel, part documentary. And now The Speakers has been adapted by William Gaskill and Max Statford-Clark, into an equally remarkable play, newly arrived at the ICA after two months on tour. There are no seats. No stage. Only a rudimentary tea and sandwich stall (serving reall tea and sandwiches) in the middle of the auditorium. The audience mills about, exchanging the uncertain grimaces of those who anticipate that their avant garde principles are about to be put uncomfortably to the test. Then, from their different perches, the speakers get under way. Jacobus Van Dyn: Luridly tatooed from his waist to the

crown of his shaven head repeating the dubious tale that he was once a henchmand of Al Capone’s (Public Enemy No, 6«) like a catechism of hoodlum faith. Axel Ney Hoch: Stateless middle European Jew bearded like a patriarch, preaching anarchy and violence out of a gentle fear that he might otherwise practise it. And Bill Mac Guinness: Feverish, blarneying, doped-up Irishman, racing towards the borders of his own sanity like an outlaw on the run (»He was known as The Boy Speaker before the war«, says one oldtimer, wistful for a less lunatic but more earnest past: »No fight left in the park now.«) Other members of this odd little brotherhood (most of them based on real characters) come and go around the teastall, Cafferty, neophyte orator, questions them, wanting to learn how to become »an interesting public speaker ,« But what can they teach him? In the end, only that The Speakers are people driven by a strange compulsion (like artist?) to communicate the fact that all the world is out of step except themseves. The acting is marvellous, natably Tony Rohr as Mac-Guinness. But be prepared for a strenuous evening. I reckon I walked a good two miles following the action around the auditorium.